"Ah." So even he was able to look caught off guard. Not that shame followed. "I'd hoped you'd meet under...better circumstances."
Alais did not crane her head to look at him, instead keeping her gaze fixed on the gibbet. A silence hung about her, her features frozen with something inscrutable. A sense of hyper-awareness washed her over in the meantime; if she wanted to make a scene, now would have been a very good time, here in broad daylight and with all the eyes of the capitol grapevine upon them. Come to think of it, there'd yet to have been a more compelling excuse to break into hysterics. Could he fault her for it? How much
disciplinary action
would she be risking if she were to fall dramatically to her knees and violently sob, delaying his itinerary for who knows how long? And just how much would that even hinder him?
She continued standing quietly. Overreactions did not come naturally to her, no matter their appeal in the heat of the moment. And she was drained, so drained, that she doubted she could pull off an immaculate display. Though he may have been her friend, Edmure certainly was not her beloved. But the revelation was enough to give her nightmares for the remainder of the week; she valued his friendship that much.
She saw the King approached by Ser Bryant, and spoken to in muted tones, which prompted his gaze to the strawberry ornament. He straightened, after a moment. "You torture yourself by lingering, princess. Return to the carriage." He paused, and allowed, "I will have the trinket returned to you, later."
Truth be told, she wanted nothing more to do with the brooch, but she couldn't stand the sight of it pinned to the lapel of those wretched remains with an even greater ferocity. A whimsical notion would've been to pass it onto one of the urchins, like the girl she kept in mind, as a parting souvenir. But she could think of something for it later all the same - and it was good of him to acquiesce to her request, the lone silver lining against a backdrop of overmastering terror. Her expectations for the benevolence in him was already so low that any small gesture of actual magnanimity would have come as a vaguely pleasant surprise.
Who knows, perhaps her delayed response (combined with not actually following the command) was impertinence enough as it were, but she owed it to her late betrothed to try one last thing.
"...Will he be taken down?"
She brushed her eyes with the back of her hand for effect, blinking once or twice. It was an amendment to her prior convictions: she had promised herself that she would not cry, unless it was the calculated sort of crying. Apparently, displays of emotional weakness bore slightly more desirable results than acting out - and as long as her recent behavior had been good, which it had.
It wasn't too difficult anyway. She wept delicately and realistically, discreet enough not to cause a stir beyond those who were already paying attention, and was in fact making a visible effort to stifle herself. Soon her face was lowered into her palms, her shoulders drawn tight and trembling. He
was
her friend, platonic affection and all.
If this had any effect on the King, he didn't show it. His expression remained utterly implacable, though she noticed that he was observing her with a particular intensity.
"His time hasn't come," was the long-awaited answer. His tone brooked no argument. "Taking him down will not make him any less dead."
He made a gesture, and Ser Bryant gently took hold of her arm, guiding her back to the carriage.
There wasn't
that
much disappointment, but she made the effort to appear crestfallen nonetheless. This combined with a slight nod of acceptance made for a pitiful sight indeed. Even if it hadn't moved him, she couldn't possibly quit halfway. And if she could make herself appear... somewhat... less than what she was, perhaps that might do...
something
for her later on. For now, she behaved with a distant sort of obedience, her expressions blank and her reactions made bland by trauma after the artful tears had dried.
As she climbed into the carriage, she saw the King toss a few coins to the urchins who had spoken with her, and then they were on their way once more.
There were more gates to traverse, more checkpoints to pause at and archers to go under, making it amply clear that it was a place not easily breached. But the palace itself was not merely bleak and utilitarian - indeed, the architecture was grand and lavish, not above displaying opulence in its flourishes. Eight stone pillars lined the entrance, each one as thick as a man was tall, so that to stand next to one was to feel as an ant.
And it was this that was to be her new home.
*****
Alexander was not immune to feeling empathy, per se, but he was so desensitized that it took particular circumstances for it to register. He objectified most people and detached himself from them; only those who were especially close to him (a number he could count on one hand) could trigger genuine feelings of guilt or compassion, or curb a streak of malice halfway begun. The princess did not fall in this category. Certainly he was interested in her, and he was exceptionally attracted to her. He might even say he liked her, in his way. But she was not, for all that she mourned so beautifully, someone that Alexander had yet to think of as more than some trophy he'd plucked from Vvaria's walls.
He'd sentenced Edmure to rot in the gibbet for a full five years, just as he'd sentenced every other transgressor on this bridge. It was important that would-be plotters and rabble-rousers take a good long look as they traversed this bridge, lest they forget the fate awaiting them should they step out of line. Edmure was a particular triumph - the evidence of his latest conquest, and a story that remained burned in the minds of every witness to his punishment. Beyond pragmatic reasons, the terrible part of Alexander enjoyed seeing his former enemies reduced before him, and displayed in all this wretched depravity.
Really, she shouldn't have been disappointed. The lack of mockery was a generosity in of itself.
As the procession finally entered the courtyard, they were assailed by a veritable army of servants and stableboys, swarming them and ready to make preparations for their welcome.
Alexander arranged for the princess to be stolen away in the midst of all this commotion, so that she would be swept discreetly into her rooms and not draw the eye of too many nobles at the same time. He knew enough of his court - which he generally had far less loyalty from than the masses - to anticipate the machinations that would unfurl at the first sign of her arrival, whether it was to poison her or convert her to their various causes. He had enough to deal with as it was.
As he made for his own rooms, he asked for any letters to be sent for. There were plenty awaiting his arrival, many of them the usual fare - obsequious requests, disputes between squabbling nobles, tributes from nervous neighbors, and so on. He swept all of these aside and asked only for news from Vvaria; three letters were duly fetched, and once he settled into his quarters, delivered for his inspection.
The first was from Prince Radvar, twin brother of the kidnapped princess. Days ago, and not long after the tumultuous discovery of Alais's disappearance, a falcon of remarkable intellect (whom Radvar affectionately called 'Gretka') had burst into the ravenry with a missive attached to her leg. The contents of the missive were actually quite civil in writing, for all the chaos Gretka's mean and imposing disposition stirred among all the lesser brained ravens that day, and after what had to have been numerous onslaughts of "I told you" and "Old man" and "How could you let this happen" and "I'm taking her back" (begrudgingly curtailed by a "Listen to me, you reckless dolt") from prince to grandfather.
In any case, none of that high-strung emotion bled into the ink. The relevant content itself was as simple as thus:
We were deeply disturbed to discover that a charlatan had dared to impersonate Your Majesty.
Since masquerading as one's divine authority is also a crime of heresy, we have taken it upon ourselves to, summarily, try and execute the pretender. His head shall be delivered shortly for your inspection.
We were compelled to resort toward more barbaric means of interrogation (i.e. boiling) in order to extract a confession, so the rest of him is regrettably unfit for travel. After a bit of hot water, the pretender seemed convinced that Your Majestic Person was complicit in his crude devices. This is naturally absurd, especially for one as Majestic as yourself, and so we have discarded his final words as the drivel of a dying lunatic, as per our good faith. Please do not be alarmed; it was no trouble at all. We are positive you would have extended us the same courtesy, were the roles reversed.
As for the remainder of your countrymen, rest assured that we have similarly presumed their innocence for the time being. They are being treated well. I even played chess with Leander the other night. Needless to say, he loses with grace.
Kind regards.
With the added footnote of:
Where is my sister
, and little else.
A week after this first letter's arrival came an ornate box carved with exceptional woodwork, the aforementioned head sealed inside; it was scented and prepared in such a way to stave off the worst of that pungent decay, out of courtesy of course. It came with the barest slip of a note, as the formal letter of accompaniment had already been delivered previously:
Don't you think it looks like a potato? I think it looks like a potato.
And once more, in larger writing:
Where is my sister.
The most recent, last, and third of the deliveries was naturally King Esterad's response, having actually arrived very shortly before Alexander's homecoming. Once more, the mean-spirited Gretka swooped into the ravenry without any regard for the residing (and thereafter violently cawing) ravens. And once again, the content of the letter itself was extremely cordial in comparison.
This particular letter expressed disappointment and displeasure that Alexander had foregone the proper, customary channels of betrothal in favor of recklessness, for that was the only way to put it. It was a long-winded sort of chiding more easily forgiven in the elderly, which Esterad was most likely taking advantage of, as the correspondence continued in this fashion for the entire first two pages, citing the disgruntlement of several princes (and the odd king) previously in the running (Prince Hadrian composed a whole new limerick detailing his heartbreak, but he would not speak of it here), and how Alais's ladies in waiting had been made to be very, very distraught and dispossessed by the sudden change.
On the third page, he finally wrote his blessing, and that his son still awaited instructions as to how they might proceed with their Obsivian guests.
Alexander read through each of these letters with care.
The prince's first letter stirred traces of a smile, for all its cheek and communication, but the second note in the accompanying box (as well as all the care that had obviously gone into its preservation) produced outright, if surprised, laughter. Alexander felt only minor vexation at the death of his decoy, beyond the irritation that another sovereign had thought himself authorized to punish
his
subject. Had it happened in some other context, such an act could have easily incurred his wrath and invited (or more accurately, served as an excuse for) war, no matter what duplicity Alexander himself had engaged in to invite it. But never let it be said that Alexander did not have his own brand of humor, nor indeed that the right kind of amusement could well divert his anger.
A potato, honestly.
Beyond that, he was largely in a (very) good mood, having secured, with Esterad's letter, the compliance of Vvaria as planned, and an alliance that was far less tenuous than the kind he disliked. His arrangements were coming along nicely, and with luck, he could put Vvaria's ships to good use before the year was out - and see its Vale traversed. Presently disposed as he was to be indulgent, he was also able to overlook Esterad's lectures without much distaste.
His response was almost rudely succinct, and blithely ignored all rebukes and insinuations - such was the privilege of power:
I'm pleased to receive your acceptance of my terms - I would have been disappointed in your reputation for wisdom, otherwise. I expect we will have a very promising alliance together. You will hear more from me once the marriage is finalized.
Please inform Prince Radvar that his sister is perfectly safe. I daresay she is even as safe as the Obsivian guests he is currently charming, though I'm certain my hospitality could never match his. I have enclosed my own gift, to aid his study in anatomy.
A plain potato had been wrapped in white silk, and placed in a box more ornate and fine than had been delivered to him. It would serve as a potential scare; his words could have easily implied he had sent some chopped extremity in turn, which was enough to sate Alexander's mild vengeance when it came to his pretender's death.
The Vvarian falcon had yet to depart from the ravenry, and was still in the midst of terrorizing the other birds, or so Alexander was told. He instructed it to be fed and watered well, before being entrusted with the return missive.
